Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder. Help someone's soul heal. Walk out of your house like a shepherd. (Rumi)
At times I feel poetry with
no words. Feelings whitewater
through me with the scent of purpose.
Memories crash against the banks
of an unexplored river looking
for their level, promising to be
tamed by language if they can
get still.
Titanic movements swell inside
with a seaspray of hints at
profundity. My life will be
forever changed if this water
falls into vocabulary.
So I paddle on, still believing.
Still believing.
Still believing.
and it sticks in my throat like a primal
blockage that wants to give
way but can’t.
The people of this beautiful land are
loving and generous and kind, for
the most part, but also angry and
hateful, exclusionary, and possessive
of the wealth of freedom they think
they have.
They came as immigrants, then
ignored those already
here, like this sentence does.
They came as immigrants, then
opposed those who would follow,
closing doors once held open for the
yearning masses.
Not all, of course, and celebrations
demand a focus on the praiseworthy —
the stands taken for democracy, the
opportunities offered to outgrow our
selves, the social safety net we
knit from strands of compassion and
a deep-seated aversion to sullying
our beautiful lives with visions of
poverty.
She gives with one hand and takes
away with the other, my motherland.
She preaches a hoarded freedom,
this limited paradise of promise.
She offers crumbs from the table
as if that should ease our craving.
But I am she. And you. And you. And
The immigrant. And the Cherokee. And
the Irish seeking relief from impoverished
hunger. And the African seeking the
freedom stolen from them.
And the Jew seeking life un-threatened.
And the Palestinian seeking life un-threatened.
And the Sudanese seeking
peace. And the Hindu and the
Muslim and the Chinese and the
Ukrainian and the Serb and the
Mexican and the fullness of the
human experience on this planet
that is home to us all.
Mine is the patriotism of humanity,
fueled by a democratic compassion,
honoring the republic that makes
us one. Let freedom ring.
In Sunday School,
I learned that a
person could live
inside the belly of
a great fish for
three whole days
And a boat could
be built that would
hold two of every
creature ever born
plus a family of
eight
And that a barely
pubescent shepherd
could slay a giant
with a slingshot
and a well-aimed
stone.
And the Jesus
we heard about
fed people and
welcomed children and
told stories about
kind strangers who
cared for others
And he talked
about mercy and
he talked about hope
and he talked about
loving one another,
not as good ideas, but
as the essence of
righteousness.
And how the ones
who taught me that
became advocates for
a theology of meanness,
mouthpieces for a
politics of hate,
soldiers in an army
of exclusion,
is a kind of reverse-
miracle I’ll never
understand.
A friend says, “I’m practically
allergic to organized religion,”
and I nod in solidarity and
sisterhood. I joke, “I'm
far more comfortable with
disorganized religion.”
Then I go home and check
Merriam-Webster because English
professors do that a lot more
often than you might think, and it
tells me that religion is “an organized
system of religious attitudes, beliefs,
and practices,” and I realize that
“organized religion” is redundant.
It doesn’t impact my friend’s
position, but my standup routine
has to change. I’m not comfortable
with religion period. I’m not comfortable
with the idea that moral behavior
can be organized into a list of
dos and don’ts. I’m not comfortable
with the intentions of a singular
creator being known and owned by
this or that hierarchical, patriarchal,
oligarchical, pseudo-monarchical
“non-profit” organization. I am not
comfortable with any one way being
determined the arbiter of sacredness,
the magistrate of love.
So once again, since it came
up, I check the layout of my
philosophy. I rearrange the furniture
of my creed. I tweak the angle
of my theology and take residual
dogma out with the trash. I remember
again that the only value in any of it
is the degree to which it reminds me
of who I am, the freedom with which
it allows life to flow like a breeze
or a river or a bird gliding on energy
unseen by a physical eye but
undeniable in the experience
of the flier.
It was still funny, though.
Deb Moore 